


Post-Op

by Batsymomma11



Series: The Details of Being A Dad [8]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Surgery, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Waiting Rooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 02:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16399592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Dick Grayson needed surgery. His family had to sit in the waiting room, just like everyone else. Bruce isn't worried. Not at all. Not. At. All.





	Post-Op

**Author's Note:**

> This was literally inspired by my mom having surgery this week. She had a nonunion that needed a plate and bone grafts. I sat at the hospital FOREVER. And instead of updating the works I said I would, I ended up writing this. :) Oh well. 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this story.   
> Enjoy!

Jason was sitting in a chair, long legs draped uncomfortably over the armrest, back arched awkwardly as he snored just loud enough to be considered rude. Tim was flipping through a magazine, his eyes vacant and not nearly focused enough to actually be reading, but dutifully scanning, nonetheless. Damian had taken up residence in the corner of the waiting room, nearest Bruce, and was sprawled with a sketchpad and earbuds discreetly tucked into his ears. Alfred had become to antsy to sit, though he’d never admit that, and had gone for some coffee in the hospital cafeteria.

And then there was Bruce, who’d spent the last hour staring at the bland floral wallpaper, doing a piss-poor job of appearing unworried. He was worried. More than he’d been in a long time.

He knew the numbers and the stats. He knew the likelihood for infection, anesthesia mishaps, and recovery time. Hell, Bruce had done an extensive study on the surgeon prior to letting Dick anywhere near that operating room, but he still felt—anxious, nervous, frightened. Dreadfully alarmed that something would go wrong in that chilly sterile room and Dick wouldn’t be OK. He was more afraid than he wanted to be. More afraid than he’d ever admit, least of all to his children.

“Here we are,” Alfred came quietly into the softly lit room, his thin smile a welcome respite from the constant pressure of wariness and everyone stood to greet him. He’d brought drink carriers with favorite coffees or teas. And the boys swarmed him. Bruce waited till Alfred took the seat to his right before getting his own cup and wrapped both hands around the paper sleeve to warm the cold out of his knuckles.

“Any word?”

“No,” Bruce answered, eyeing the door where he’d been told the surgeon would come out when everything was finished, and Dick was in recovery. Hospitals were all about ‘hurry up and wait’. He wondered why they didn’t make it their slogan. Even if he trusted the staff and the quality of care in this particular branch of Gotham Mercy, Bruce had a deeply ingrained sense of distrust with anything big enough to have its own governing body. Hospitals were like self-contained alien organisms. They lived and breathed and moved all on their own.

Life went on outside the walls. But for those who waited within, time slowed and often stopped.

They’d been waiting for three hours. The surgery was only supposed to take two.

Bruce refused to feel the panicky edge of unease that threatened his stomach. Hospitals moved slow. Everything in them was about waiting. Waiting and waiting.

Surgeons got behind. Paperwork gummed up the gears and made for delays, even if the delays were inconvenient and worrisome to family members. It was all a part of the experience.

He believed that. Really.

“Master Bruce, perhaps a little walk would help.”

“What?” Bruce snapped, jerking his mind back to Alfred. “What did you say?”

“I said a walk might help.”

“For what?”

Alfred merely lifted a snowy brow that said more than any words could. Bruce looked sharply away.

“No.”

“I would be able to--,”

“No,” Bruce said more firmly, his face a mask of calm as his insides twisted painfully, “No, I need to be here for when the surgeon comes out. They should be done soon.”

“That’s true,” Alfred agreed, but cast a worried look around the room at all the boys who were discreetly listening in. The feeling in the room was—somber. Quiet and anticipatory. No one could be sure what was going on through a few layers of concrete and rebar. No one could be sure that Dick was just fine, and everything was just a little behind schedule.

It was supposed to be a simple surgery. Dick’s ankle broke after a bad landing on a gravel rooftop, some three months prior. It had been set, casted, and then booted. But it didn’t heal. No one knew particularly why, but that didn’t change the outcome. The doctors deemed it a ‘nonunion’. It meant Dick needed surgery for the ankle. A couple metal plates, some screws, and bone grafts to encourage the marrow and bone to heal.

This wasn’t an emergency surgery. It wasn’t even urgent. They’d had time to schedule, work out Dick’s schedule, arrange missed work and even gather all the boys for support. It had been slow and steady and easy.

Bruce felt sick.

He rechecked his watch, saw it was nearly four hours in surgery and pushed to stand. He couldn’t sit anymore. His ass was asleep, his hands were shaky, and he could feel the acid reflux climbing up the back of his throat. It would have been smart to have some tums on hand. Bruce knew he had a penchant for an upset stomach when nerves hit.

“You alright, old man?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Jason quirked a brow, “Restless legs?”

Tim and Damian were watching now, and Bruce shrugged, working to look as nonchalant as he ought to. He’d sat through surgeries before. He’d done this sort of thing, countless times throughout his years as a father. Appendicitis with Dick. A compound fracture and high fever with Jason. Tim, a bout of flu that had been outright terrifying. Damian had yet to make use of the public hospital system. His constitution was stronger it seemed.

Maybe Bruce shouldn’t be so experienced on this side of the waiting room, but he was. It shouldn’t matter who was back there. It shouldn’t—but it was Dick. It was his oldest child.

His first.

He’d felt the same after the appendicitis. He felt the same anytime Alfred patched or stitched. He felt the same anytime he even heard a sniffle out of one of his children. But Dick was special to him in a way that defied logic. Of course, he loved all of his sons. How could he not? He loved them fiercely and without question. He loved them equally, but differently.  

Dick was special in ways he couldn’t describe and didn’t always like to understand. No parent wanted to believe they had favorites. Bruce liked to believe each of his children was a favorite in their own right for their own uniqueness.  

“Wasn’t he supposed to be out already?”

“Yes.”

“What’s taking so long?” Tim asked now, scrubbing both hands down his face, “Any ideas?”

“No,” Bruce sighed, “No ideas. But everything is fine.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.”

Damian had pulled out his earbuds and was frowning at the surgery doors, his brows drawn so low he looked menacing. “They would tell us if there were complications. Grayson is fine.”

"Of course,” Tim agreed, and Jason shrugged, but his gaze too, kept getting snagged on the glossy silver doors. Everyone shifted, sighed, then repositioned and sat once more. Bruce too.

It wouldn’t help to pace, and he didn’t want to leave. He _had_ to be there for when the doctor came out.

“Wayne family?”

Bruce got to his feet a little too quickly and felt the room tip. He’d not been able to eat anything in the last twenty-four hours. He’d been too anxious.

“Yes, Bruce Wayne.”

The surgeon, wearing scrubs and crocs and a smile, shook hands with Bruce like they were chums. Bruce appreciated the gesture. It caused almost all of the tension in his shoulders to immediately drain.

“Dick did wonderful. We got a little behind in the surgery and it took a little longer to get the bone cleaned up, but it’s all done. A plate, screws, and grafts. We’ve re-casted everything and we’ll need to keep him off it for the first six to weight weeks. Then the boot again. But it all went how I wanted it to.”

“And he’s awake?”

“He’ll be groggy and loopy but yes. He’s in recovery. I can take you back, two at a time.”

“Only two?” Bruce frowned, aware of the heated stares at his back. “What if we promise to stay quiet?”

The surgeon smiled, apparently used to family asking this, “I don’t make the rules.”

“Alright, I understand.”

“Excellent. Who’s first?”

Alfred rose and joined Bruce without question. It didn’t need to be discussed. Between Alfred and Bruce, they’d practically co-parented Dick and they would be the first to see him. The others could come later.

They followed the surgeon back through a labyrinth of strongly smelling halls; linoleum and medication induced groaning. It felt a little like walking through Arkham’s medical unit and it made gooseflesh ripple over Bruce’s frame. He’d never been fond of any medical institution. It wasn’t that he was against them, far from it. It was more about how it made him feel.

He’d never lost someone in a hospital. Death came anywhere, at any time. Whether it was on an operating table, in a comfy recliner in front of the TV or even in a sodden dark alleyway where no one could hear the scream of a child. No, death was not sacred to a hospital. Bruce knew that better than anyone.

So, he didn’t understand the psychology of it. But he was aware of its affect on him.

He was very aware of how his skin crawled and his heart clenched. He could feel how his breathing got ragged as the doctor pulled back the curtain and revealed his son looking pale and small in a wash of white sheets and tacky blue hospital clothes.

No, Bruce had never lost someone in a hospital. But he’d lost people. Too many. And hospitals invariably reminded him of death.

“Dick?” Bruce whispered, then cleared his throat roughly as a pair of pale blue eyes flickered open and smiled at him, “How you doing, chum?”

“Great,” he sounded high out of his mind.

The surgeon offered another smile and disappeared as Alfred took a seat nearest Dick and immediately started arranging the blankets on the bed as if he couldn’t help himself. They hardly needed straightening. But Dick seemed to appreciate the gesture because he started giggling.

“Alfred,” Dick started, then stopped again as a laugh took him fully over, “I’m fine. I’m not cold. Am I?” He looked at Bruce and found the man frowning.

“You always did act high as hell after surgery.”

Dick snorted, “I’m not high…much.”

Alfred smoothed a hand over Dick’s brow, “You should rest, Master Dick. It will help you recover more quickly.”

“No, no,” Dick squirmed away, “I need to see everyone else too. I don’t want them worried.”

“They aren’t.” They were. But Bruce didn’t think lying to someone who was horrifically out of it, mattered all that much. “How’s the pain?”

Dick smacked his lips a few times, then looked longingly at a hospital cup with a bending straw by the bed. Bruce obliged before Alfred could and offered the drink. It was a moment before the young man came up for air but when he did it was with a long drawn out sigh.

“What did you say, B?”

“Pain?”

“Present and accounted for.”

  
“Should we get the doctor to give you something more?”

Dick grinned, “Load me up. This is nice. Not as good as some other stuff I’ve tried, but nice. Except that my leg feels like it’s going to fucking explode.”

Alfred made a little choked noise in the back of his throat but didn’t correct him. Bruce fought to hide a smile behind his hand.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Did you bring my thick socks? My feet are cold.”

“Yes. They’ve got the ice machine on your ankle, that’s why you’re cold.”

“My toes,” Dick gestured at his elevated leg. There was tubing sticking out of the bandaging that was attached to a whirring machine at the end of the bed. They’d discussed the benefits of the ice machine with the surgeon and had been told it would greatly reduce swelling and increase healing. But it looked space age. “Cold.”

Alfred scowled at the strange equipment, as if personally affronted, then began delicately draping blankets over Dick’s bare toes that hardly stuck out from the bandaging. It seemed to appease both of them.

“Better, Master Dick?”

“Yeah,” Dick’s smile wobbled, “Yeah thanks, Alf. I love you, you know that? I love you both.”

Bruce cleared his throat but couldn’t make himself look the boy in the eyes. They were burning suspiciously and would likely give him away if he did. “We love you too, chum.”

“Anything else we can get you Master Dick?”

Dick blinked watery eyes around the room, looking slightly unfocused and lost. “Umm,” he smiled again, “Yeah. Yeah, I need a hug.”

“A hug?” Bruce asked quietly, aware he was frowning.

“Yeah, yeah. I want a hug. From both of you. Like a bear hug. At the same time.”

It took a moment and it was awkward and stiff, but Bruce couldn’t have denied Dick anything in that moment. He and Alfred hugged Dick in a sloppy bear hug that made Dick laugh and kiss their cheeks with loud smacking noises. Bruce didn’t care.

He was too grateful, too pleased to see his son was fine. That everything was just fine.

 


End file.
